It was summer, and it was already light outside. Deema went for a walk nice and early as was her wont. She took the tram, already half-full with almost all the passengers half- or fully-asleep. She looked around. The tram had an ad for the new subway line under construction on the other side of town, big and freshly printed. It made for a nice change from all the ads calling to support the settlers or calling attention to specific protestors and their ‘misdeeds’ of wanting an end to the genocide.
A teenager with a big racquet bag two rows down from her woke up with a start and swiveled his head around, all wide-eyed. He muttered something about having missed his stop and that he couldn’t believe he was late for training again. Deema recognized him – he was one of the more noticeable students at the protests. His claim to fame were the bagels with cream cheese and butter he brought in their scores from his family’s bakery to some of the protests she had been at. He didn’t recognize her though, busy as he was grabbing his stuff and pleading with the tram driver to tell him when the next stop was. The driver, laconic as always or because of how early it was, pointed to the info screen above his head without looking up. A minute later, he was off, running in the opposite direction. Deema followed three stops later, at the fifth locks. She always did love the green areas next to the waterways.
Deema began walking around aimlessly. Just being in close proximity to the water made her breathe easier. Even the return of the ducks and the geese for the season, covering some of the trails with their excrement, couldn’t dampen her mood. She found herself next to one of the innumerable small side streams that fed into or out of the canal. She saw a fish on the ground leap back into the water. She stopped and turned.
“Fancy seeing you here.” It was the boy, his ageless face distinct in the early rays after the sun’s rise, resplendent in green. “Peace be upon you.”
She returned his greeting with peace and the blessings of God, and followed it up immediately with a question. “Are you really Khidr?”
The boy smiled a genuine smile. At least it wasn’t grim and chilling this time. “The right pronunciation is Khizr, actually. The Zaad was historically closer to a z than a d.”
She moved closer to him and asked. “Are you him?”
“What does it matter?” He asked, serious.
“It matters to me, to the world.” She was emphatic. “To know Khid- sorry, Khizr is alive, and active, and stepping in our matters - ”
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He cut her off. “Khizr is alive in us when we do what is right. We have the knowledge, we have the ability to know right from wrong. If we do what is right, what is just, what is true, Khizr is alive. If we do not, Khizr died centuries ago.”
She was silent, her mind reeling with the ramifications. Could it be true? Could Khizr, that mysterious sage, be alive all these centuries? She noted the boy hadn’t denied being Khizr, and that fish leaping back into the water was just too on the nose. But there had to be a logical explanation for all this! Was this truly Khizr? Could she believe her eyes and all that she had seen? Was this really happening? Or was this an inspired copycat or a club of copycats. Her mind went back to the killings. There had to be a physical reason for all those allergic reactions and pulmonary embolisms and what not and definitely for those pressure cookers. How could it be targeted? Who was watching? Who had a list? She reflexively touched her amulet, reassuringly close to her heart just a little above her left elbow.
“So far, I just know destruction and death and killings,” The boy opened his mouth to protest but Deema forestalled him. “Yes, I know, of fascists but of humans nevertheless. What did you create? Where is the wall that protects the orphan’s treasure?”
The boy – the man – smiled deeply and widely. “That’s my favourite part! The wall that protects the orphans, the weak, the honest, the just, the indigene. That’s the wall of fear. The fear that the indigene will strike back. The fear that the indigene will capture them and violate them or worse, not do anything at all to them except treat them with human decency. The fear that the indigene will no longer be weak. The fear that the indigene can count on something beyond human reason. The fear that everyday normal people, typically politically indifferent people, support the indigenes. The fear that the indigene doesn’t just have moral support, but real, lasting, physical support that they will see today and forever.” He smiled again. “Nice poem, by the way.” Deema mumbled a thanks and a ‘it wasn’t just me’. Khizr (was it really him?) – whoever he was – continued. “You can brush away all sorts of unlikely things, chalk them up to coincidences. But your poem, that boy’s bagels, that girls mockeries, and everyone’s time and efforts, risking life and limb for people and ocean away? You combine that with mysterious deaths and the very real social deaths and what do you get?”
He spread his hands. “Look around. Do you see anything different?” He pointed to the billboards, suddenly totally free of colonial posters and calls to settle (almost) virgin land and now advertising a new museum exhibit on the ancient incense trade. “This is fear. This is not conscience, dear Deema. This is pure, primal, unadulterated fear.”
He smiled again, a beautiful smile. “This is the wall, Deema, the wall of the indigenes. The poems and protests and the supplies and the armed support from their neighbours helped. But it’s really them. They have made their own wall. They have guaranteed their future. Yes, they paid a heavy price. But they put the fear of God, and the fear of the indigenes themselves, in the hearts of the colonisers and the fascists. They are winning, Deema. They will win. We will win.”